


Secrets of the Blue Box

by WhovianDream



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 19:41:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhovianDream/pseuds/WhovianDream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fluffy Sherlock/John fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrets of the Blue Box

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a competition prize for Sarkynerd. Idea was hers, writing is mine, Sherlock is the BBC's (and John's).

“John. I need the jar from the top shelf of the fridge.”  


The call comes from the direction of Sherlock's bedroom, deep voice muffled through the closed door. After a minute, a faint huff can be heard at the lack of reply.  


“John! I know you dislike me keeping body parts in the fridge, but if you bring them here they won't be in the fridge any more.”  


Still no reply. Sherlock sighs and pokes his head out of his bedroom door. The flat is empty.  


His eyes scan the room, taking in important details with every sweep. The missing coat, the half empty tea cup, the slight rumple in the rug by the door. John's out then, and he left in a hurry if the tea is anything to go by. He always finishes his tea.  


Sherlock's brow creases as a faint smell of aftershave reaches his nostrils. Ah. Date then. For a moment, Sherlock racks his brain, trying to remember the name of John's latest girlfriend. Laura or something. Not important.  


He collapses onto the sofa, his previous good mood suddenly evaporating. He quickly pushes all thought of his flatmate to the back of his mind. It doesn't matter that John's not here. It doesn't matter that John might not come home tonight. And it certainly doesn't matter that John's on a date. He is just annoyed because he has to fetch his own things of course. Anything else would just be silly.  


He realises that his stomach feels peculiar. Probably because he hasn't eaten all day. Again. John would have reminded him to eat...  


Sherlock suddenly lashes out and knocks over the coffee table. He relishes the sound it makes as it hits the floor. Maybe it's broken. Good. He knocks over the client's chair too. Then he is up and pacing about the flat, a deep furrow in his brow.  


“Stupid, stupid, stupid.”  


With each word his arm sweeps out and pushes something else to the floor. Papers and books go flying. He rips at the wallpaper, causing a long tear above the mantelpiece.  


“Sherlock!”  


Sherlock whips around to glare at the figure in the doorway.  


John stares back at him, wide eyed and confused.  


“What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?”  


“Bored,” Sherlock replies, sweeping into the kitchen. He is still frowning, but his eyes have softened a little. He grabs the jar from the fridge and makes his way towards his bedroom.  


“Hang on Sherlock, what's the matter?” John asks with concern. “You have a big case on, how can you be bored?” He notices the jar, containing several severed fingers. For a moment he considers saying something, but he pushes the thought down. Sherlock is upset and that is far more important.  


“Tedious. Everything is tedious” Sherlock grunts, turning and starting towards the door again.  


“Much like my date” mutters John quietly to himself. Sherlock pauses in the doorway.  


“What did you say?” he asks, knowing perfectly well what John said, but wanting to hear it again.  


“Nothing.” Sherlock looks carefully at John. He sees the slight worry lines etched into his forehead and the half undone cuff on his right sleeve. John had been feeling awkward then. He always fiddled with his cuff when he was nervous. Sherlock briefly wondered why he knew that before pushing the thought away.  


“Sherlock?” John asks questioningly.  


“What?” snaps Sherlock.  


“You'd sort of frozen.” There is an unvoiced question lurking in the doctor's eyes. Sherlock realises that John is worried about him. He conceals his surprise and waves John away with his hand.  


“Thinking.” He turns sharply and walks back into the living room, collapsing into his chair. The bedroom is probably too cold for his experiment anyway, it would be best if he conducted it out here instead. His change of mind is nothing to do with John having a bad date.  


He realises he is still holding the jar of fingers and goes to place it on the coffee table. Belatedly he remembers that he knocked it over. The jar falls to the floor and rolls towards John's feet, thankfully retaining its contents.  


“Sherlock!” John exclaims, exasperated. He studies the jar, brow creased in disgust. Then he seems to change his mind about something and merely sighs. “I think I'm going to text Greg and see if he fancies a drink tonight.”  


Sherlock looks up sharply.  


“No.”  


John raises his eyebrows.  


“Excuse me?”  


“I said no,” Sherlock says, looking resolutely at the floor. “I need someone to help me with my experiment.”  


John sighs. “Can't you hold your own test tubes for once? I've had a really bad day and I just want to have a drink and relax.”  


“Experiments are relaxing,” Sherlock mutters to himself. John laughs.  


“Only to you! I'm constantly worried you're going to drop some nasty chemical on my hand and scar me for life!”  


Sherlock looks affronted.  


“I would never do that. Not to you” He starts, shocked. He hadn't meant to say that last part. At least not out loud.  


John studies him for a minute. Sherlock notices something flicker behind his eyes, but before he can identify it, it's quickly replaced with a careful look of resignation.  


“Fine. But as soon as we're done, I'm sitting down to watch crap telly. And you're going to do it with me.”  


Sherlock groans theatrically.  


“Fine. Deal.” Despite the outward scowl, Sherlock is secretly pleased. Tonight could turn out better than expected.

 

Three hours and two minor burns later, John and Sherlock are sitting together on the sofa, surrounded by Chinese take away cartons. The television is blaring loudly, its flickering light a warm glow in the darkened room. But its performance goes unnoticed as neither flatmate is awake to watch it.  


John is sitting propped up at one end of the sofa, his elbow resting on the arm, face in hand. He lets out a gentle murmur in his sleep, settling back further into the cushions.  


Sherlock is draped lankily across the other half of the sofa, head turned towards John, feet curled underneath him. He shifts slightly and his head falls down to rest gently on John's shoulder. His eyes flicker open momentarily and a faint smile drifts across his features before he falls back to sleep.

 

Half an hour later, John shifts in his sleep and becomes uncomfortably aware of the weight on his shoulder. He can vaguely feel his wound starting to ache; he needs to move or else his shoulder will be murder tomorrow. Hmm, Sherlock would approve of his choice of words.  


He chuckles gently before opening his eyes a fraction to find the source of his mild discomfort. His eyes widen further in surprise when he sees Sherlock's head so close, a few curls just starting to tickle his nose.  


Gently he reaches over with his free arm to rouse Sherlock. He hates to wake the detective when he is finally sleeping so peacefully, but his shoulder is really starting to twinge painfully.  


“Sherlock,” he whispers, half hoping the man wouldn't hear him. “Sherlock, wake up.”  


The detective opens one bleary eye and turns to look up at John. Their faces are only a few inches apart and John takes in an involuntary breath. He finds his gaze drawn to Sherlock's lips. So tempting, so near.  


Unconsciously, he licks his owns lips, a nervous tick which makes Sherlock smirk. John watches the detective's full lips curve upwards and is overcome by a strong desire to have them pressed against his own.  


His eyes flicker up to meet Sherlock's and he sees similar want and eagerness reflected there. Before he realises what he is doing, he leans forward and crushes his lips against Sherlock's, kissing him firmly on the mouth.  


Sherlock's eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn't back away.  


  


Suddenly John's brain catches up with his actions and he pulls back sharply.  


“I....sorry Sherlock, I don't-” but the detective cuts him off.  


“No” he says quietly, echoing his objection from earlier. Concern floods John's eyes and his cheeks flush. He starts to back away further and untangle himself from his flatmate. Sherlock stops him.  


“No, don't stop,” he clarifies, before raising a hand to the doctor's face and pulling it down for a deep kiss.  


It's John's turn to be surprised at Sherlock's change in character, but he soon recovers.  


His eyes flutter shut and he loses himself in the feeling of Sherlock's mouth. He cautiously pokes his tongue at Sherlock's bottom lip, wanting to deepen the kiss further, but unsure if the detective will let him. However Sherlock parts his lips to let him in without a thought. He pulls them both back to lie full length on the sofa, snug againt each other in the small space.  


John reaches his hand up to tangle in Sherlock's gorgeous curls, pulling him even closer. The kiss is passionate, months of pent up emotions finally allowed to surface.

John finally pulls back.  


“Sherlock....” but he doesn't need to finish the sentence, since Sherlock is already shifting so that John can manoeuvre his shoulder into a move comfortable position.  


“Thanks,” John murmurs, snuggling warmly into his flatmate's side. He pauses, considering his words. “I've wanted to kiss you for such a long time,” he admits quietly.  


“The idea had occurred to me also” replies Sherlock with a grin. “But I dismissed it as foolish sentiment.”  


John looks up at him.  


“Do you still think that?” he asks carefully.  


“John. Do you really need to ask me that when I have spent the last ten minutes with my tongue inside your mouth?”  


John chuckles.  


“I was just making sure.” He reaches over to grab the remote and switch off the tv, which is now showing a late night nature programme.  


“Hey, I was watching that,” objects the detective. “They had some really interesting facts about bees.”  


“Well tough,” replies John firmly. “It's about time we got some sleep.”  


“I've already had far too much sleep for one night,” grumbles Sherlock, “and the bed is such a long way away.”  


“You've barely had two hours sleep, Sherlock, you need more than that. And who said anything about beds? I am quite comfortable here.” He grins at the scowling detective beside him. Sherlock blinks, brow becoming less furrowed as he processes the doctor's words.  


“Well I suppose I could sleep another hour, if I was forced, “ he mutters, feigning disgust. But a small smile twitches at the corner of his mouth and he shifts on the sofa to rest his head against the doctor's arm.  


John sighs contentedly and hesitates before reaching up to gently stroke the detective's hair.  


“Good night, Sherlock,” he murmurs.  


“G'night” comes the faint reply.  


Six peaceful hours later, as the sun peeks through the curtains, both men are still curled up fast asleep, bodies entwined and faces content.

  


~~~

  


“Jooohn, you haven't kissed me yet this morning,” whines Sherlock petulantly from his chair. It's been almost a week and John still can't believe he's allowed to kiss the handsome detective. Nevertheless, he quickly crosses the room and plants a kiss on Sherlock's forehead.  


“No, not like that,” objects Sherlock. He grab John's arm before he can move away and pulls him down for a long kiss on the lips. When he finally releases him, his eyes are bright.  


“Much better,” he remarks, “ though I'm only giving 8 out of 10 for the lack of hands in my hair.”  


John grins.  


“You have a thing about your hair, don't you?”  


“I have sensitive follicles” mutters the detective. “I'm appalled it's taken you this long to notice.”  


John's grin turns sly.  


“That's something that may come in useful.”  


Sherlock looks up at the change in tone. He sees the doctor's smirk and adopts one of his own.  


“Now that's an area of research I definitely have some interest in. He moves as if to capture John again, but the doctor moves out of reach.  


“Not now Sherlock,” he admonishes. “ I have to go to work remember. One of us has to pay the bills,” he adds under his breath.  


Sherlock pretends not to hear him and instead leans back in his chair, putting on his best sulking face.  


“Fine. But make sure you bring back some Petri dishes, I'm almost out.”  


The doctor sighs and picks up his coat. Giving the detective a brief peck on the cheek, which Sherlock hastily wipes away in defiance, he grabs his keys and rushes out the door. He always seems to be late now that he's dating Sherlock. The detective never wants to let him leave.

  


~~~

  


“A date?!” asks Sherlock incredulously. “We've been together five months already, so why on earth would you want to go on a date?”  


“It's just something people do. To have fun. Plus you haven't had a case in weeks and it's starting to show. You really need to get out of the flat.”  


Sherlock huffs and pretends not to know what John is talking about. So what if he'd rearranged all the food in the cupboard alphabetically, it made things easier to find, didn't it? And the table looks better with the new burn marks. Gives it an excitingly rugged look, no matter what Mrs Hudson says.  


John clears his throat, bringing his flatmate back to the present.  


“We're going on a date,” he says with finality. “ I've already called Angelo's and booked us a table. Now go and get dressed, we need to leave in ten minutes.”  


Sherlock scowls at John, but he reluctantly drags himself towards his bedroom. He doesn't know why he's so nervous about going on a date. It's not as if it's anything different to what they normally do, they're even going to Angelo's. But somehow this seems strange.  


He picks out a clean suit, but he can't decide on a shirt. He dithers between a smart black one and a dark purple one. Putting off the decision for a minute, he hangs both options on the wardrobe door and looks around for his phone instead.  


Maybe Molly will be able to give him some advice. They've become quite close since John and he have been dating. Molly seemed to instinctively know that there were some areas of a relationship which Sherlock would find difficult and so had taken it upon herself to help him. It started unobtrusively enough, a subtle hint here or there, but Sherlock had slowly come to depend on her for advice. Especially big decisions.  


His gaze falls on his sock drawer and his face breaks into a grin. He'd definitely needed help with that one.  


“I'd go with the purple one if I were you.”  


Sherlock jumps guiltily, turning to see John standing in the doorway.  


“Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you,” the doctor says, a brief look of confusion flickering across his features. “I was just going to have a shower and I saw your door open.”  


“I was just thinking,” replies Sherlock, a little too quickly. “The purple one you say?”  


John frowns, but seems to dismiss whatever thought had crossed his mind.  


“Yes, the black one would make you look like you were going to a funeral when worn with the suit.”  


“Not good?” jokes Sherlock.  


“Bit not good. Not really appropriate for a date.”  


“I don't see why not,” grumbles Sherlock. “Both are highly stressful events which often end in tears.”  


“Sherlock!” scolds John, “You can't say things like that.”  


“It's fine,” shrugs Sherlock, picking up the purple shirt and taking it carefully off the hanger.  


“No it's not, it's not okay!” John looks stricken, before he notices the glint in Sherlock's eye.  


“You're joking,” he realises, more than a little relieved. The worry lines disappear from his forehead and he smiles slowly.  


“I would have thought that would be obvious,” comments Sherlock mockingly.  


John gives the detective a playful nudge.  


“Humph. Now get dressed, we're going to be late.”

  


“I can't believe she slapped you!” John exclaims as they let themselves in. The key sticks slightly in the door, but he manages to wrestle it open. He makes a mental note to ask Mrs Hudson to get it fixed.  


“I did tell her that she was a pointless excuse for a human being and reveal her ongoing affair in front of her husband and two children,” sighed Sherlock. He had tried to keep the deductions to a minimum in honour of the occasion, but that one had made him angry and he couldn't help himself. John hadn't minded though. In fact, he'd seemed to find it quite amusing. Up until the point the woman had slapped Sherlock of course.  


“I know, I know. She still shouldn't have slapped you though. After all, she could have cut herself on your cheekbones,” chuckles John.  


Sherlock looks bemused as they climb the stairs and enter 221B.  


“Tea?”  


“Oh yes please,” replies John eagerly as he sinks into his chair.  


“No, I meant you make me tea,” corrects the detective. John merely sighs as he pushes himself back upright with a groan.  


“You could always make your own tea,” grumbles the doctor.  


“Boring.” Sherlock slumps full length on the sofa and steeples his hands under his chin. John puts the kettle on, finds some mugs then wanders back into the living room to wait for the kettle to boil. Seeing Sherlock sprawled out he grins and gently lifts the detectives legs so that he can slide underneath. Sherlock wriggles to get comfortable again and John giggles.  


“Stop that!” Sherlock promptly repeats the movement.  


“Oh you -” John lunges at Sherlock and starts to tickle him energetically.  


“No- ... Stop- ... Don't!” gasps Sherlock between laughs. “I..I can't take any more!” John chuckles lets up, collapsing beside the detective.  


“I never knew you were so ticklish,” he muses.  


“It's not something I tend to broadcast to the general population,” Sherlock admits.  


“Why not? Scared Moriarty will come and tickle you to death?” John mocks. “Though it's nice to know I'm no longer classed as the general population,” smiles John.  


Sherlock looks at him seriously.  


“Of course not, you're John Watson. There's nothing ordinary about John Watson.” John grins widely and leans over to pull Sherlock in for a long kiss. The tea is left forgotten.

  


~~~

  


Sherlock shakes his phone in frustration. Why isn't Molly texting back? He needs answers and he needs them now. What could she possibly be doing that is more important than this. He sighs loudly.

  


John sees Sherlock standing in the middle of the kitchen, looking at something in his hand. He seems somehow agitated.  


He frowns as Sherlock sighs dramatically. Moving up behind his partner, John moves to wrap his arms around the detective. Sherlock nearly jumps out of his skin and backs away hurriedly, tucking something in his pockets. John's frown deepens.  


“Sherlock,” he says cautiously. “What is wrong?” The detective looks panicked and his eyes flit around the room as if looking for an escape route.  


John's voice turns stern.  


“Sherlock, tell me what is going on. That's several times recently that you've jumped guiltily when I've turned up unexpectedly. And each time you've been looking at your phone.  


Sherlock looks at the floor and ignores the question.  


“What are you doing home so early?” he asks.  


“I thought I'd come back and surprise you as it's our anniversary. I brought Chinese food.” He lamely holds up the bag, looking dejected.  


“Good, let's eat then,” Sherlock says, a little harshly.  


“No,” John states firmly. “Not until you tell me what's going on. It must be important if you are offering to eat voluntarily.”  


Sherlock winces.  


“John....”  


“No. Tell me. To be frank, I'm worried. You've been spending a lot of time at the morgue lately too. At first I though it was a case, but you haven't had one in weeks. Are you using again?”  


“No, God no John. I would never do that to you.” Sherlock is almost frantic, his eyes silently pleading with John to let it go.  


“Well, that's something at least. Good. What is it then? Is Mycroft being an arse again?” There's a faint hint of wary sympathy in John's voice.  


“No....” Sherlock hesitates. John notices.  


“Then who?”  


“Molly.”  


“........Molly?” asks John, confused.  


“She's..... helping me” Sherlock is desperately trying to stick to the truth without telling John everything. Not yet.  


“What? Why would you hide that from me?” Slowly, comprehension dawns on John's face. Excess time spent at the morgue where Molly works, hiding his phone so John can't see his texts, acting guilty and being overly compliant with John's wishes. All signs of....  


“No. No, tell me this isn't what I think it is.”  


“John--” Sherlock looks wary.  


“Sherlock, tell me you're not. You and Molly? It doesn't make sense!” He shakes his head.  


“No John, you've got it wrong--” But John interrupts him.  


“Wait, actually it does make sense. She's always had a thing for you and I bet it's a great big boost to your ego.” He gesticulates wildly, his right hand narrowly missing Sherlock's cheek. “Why on earth didn't I see it before?”  


“John, no, I would never--” Sherlock becomes even more desperate. This isn't the way he wanted this evening to go.  


“Oh yes, I think you would. Do I even mean anything at all to you? Was it just some experiment? A joke?”  


“No.” The detective's face hardens.  


“You've always been abnormal when it comes to dealing with people. How could you possibly have a normal relationship with me? I should have know it was too good to be true. You're messed up Sherlock Holmes. And sometimes I really hate you.”  


Sherlock's face becomes a blank mask, an impenetrable shield. His eyes are empty.  


“Fine. If that's what you think, then it's about time I leave.” He pushes past John, not caring when he knocks him into the table.  


“Yes, go back to Molly. I'm sure she'll be thrilled to hear you've finally got rid of John Watson.” His hip is smarting from where it banged against the table. His eyes begin to water.  


Sherlock grabs his coat and sweeps out of the flat without a backwards glance. But as soon as the door shuts behind him, his face crumples. He pauses, leaning back against the wall outside the flat, trying to gain control of his shaking hands. His phone beeps. Typical, of course Molly would reply now. Just when everything is ruined.

  


  


John hears Sherlock's phone beep and glares at the closed door. He should have known that things were too perfect to be real. The last year had been possibly the best of his life. And now it was just a lie. His body sags with the realisation and he grabs at the counter for support. Through the door, he thinks he hears Sherlock sob quietly. That couldn't be right. He listens carefully, but soon after he hears Sherlock traipsing down the stairs and the outer door closing behind him. He's gone. Really gone.  


It's over.  


John fights back tears and looks around the kitchen. He could really do with a drink, something strong. His eyes fall on the counter next to where Sherlock had been standing. It had previously been obscured from his view by Sherlock's body, but now John can see exactly what Sherlock had been doing.  


One the side there is a vase with a single flower. A lily, if John remembers correctly. Most often associated with death. Strange.  


There are also two sets of polished cutlery and the best china. John looks over to the table, it is clear of experiments and has two places mats arranged neatly at either end. It looks like Sherlock had been about to set the table for the first time in his life. That was odd in itself, as they rarely ate at the table, preferring instead to sit in front of the television with lap trays.  


Then he sees the box. A small, navy blue, insignificant box sitting conspicuously next to the vase. It seems to be looking at him accusingly.  


John's heart stops.  


Was that--? He doesn't allow himself to finish the thought. Sherlock Holmes doesn't do sentiment. There is no way that the little blue box can be what it looks like. It just can't. John's hands shake as he reaches out to gently lift the box off the counter.  


He opens it.

 

  


“Sherlock! Sherlock, wait!” Sherlock stops mid stride, hope flaring in his chest. John arrives panting beside him, hair wet from the rain. His whole body is trembling.  


“John?” the detective asks, suddenly concerned. “Are you hurt?”  


“No, you idiot” John says breathlessly. He leans over, trying to suck oxygen back into his system. He is silently thankful for all the chases he's been on with Sherlock. He'd have never caught up otherwise, the detective's long legs give him a very quick walking pace, especially when he's excited...or upset.  


When he straightens up again, he finds Sherlock staring at him warily. He meets his gaze and holds it.  


“Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I was an idiot, jumping to conclusions like that. Can we start the evening again? Please?” He looks around. A few curious passers by have stopped to watch the commotion.  


“I don't really think that is possible John, not unless you have a Tardis in your back pocket.” Sherlock's words come out rather sharper than he meant them to. Still, John had said some pretty nasty things back in the flat.  


“Sherlock please!” John is desperate, eyes pleading with Sherlock. “I didn't know, I didn't realise.”  


“Yes, that was the general idea.” Sherlock says harshly. “Molly helped me to plan it all out so that I could surprise you. I guess I succeeded in that area, though not in quite the way I intended”. He laughs bitterly.  


“Oh...” John cringes. It all makes sense now. He really has been an idiot. “Then I shall also apologise to her, when I next see her. And thank her.”  


“Thank her?” Sherlock looks confused.  


“Yes. Even if it didn't go entirely to plan, I still believe her actions will affect the rest of my life. Our lives. At least I hope so.” Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out the blue box.  


“It's not a Tardis, but...perhaps it can still change things?” He pauses and looks up at the detective. “Look Sherlock, I—”  


He takes a deep breath to still his nerves.  


“Sherlock Holmes, I love you. You are the only person in the whole world who would think that a lily is in any way romantic. And I love you for it. I truly am sorry for what I said earlier. I wasn't thinking straight. I thought I was losing you so my brain ceased all logical thought. You're not messed up, you're just you. And I love you, just the way you are.”  


He stops talking as he realises that Sherlock isn't moving. He's standing so motionless he could be a statue, frozen in time.  


“Sherlock?” Gradually, life begins to seep back into the detective's features. His eyes refocus and lock onto John.  


“You...... You love me?”  


“Yes of course, you idiot.” If John hadn't know better, he would have thought he could see tears in Sherlock's eyes. Must have been the rain.  


“But you were right. No relationship with me will ever be normal. I am a highly functioning sociopath. We don't do sentiment.”  


“Well this one does. And I don't want a normal relationship. I've had plenty of those and look where it got me. I want a relationship with you. I want..I want to marry you.”  


This time Sherlock recovers more quickly, pushing away the shock and moving to action.  


“Well in that case--” Sherlock reaches over and takes the blue box from John's hand. He slowly gets down on one knee, trouser leg splashing in a puddle. Opening the box, he looks up at the doctor, his doctor.  


“John Hamish Watson. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, that will ever happen to me. I want you always by my side. For better or for worse criminals, for richer or for poorer clients, in burglary and in murder cases. Because I think, John Watson, that I might just love you too.”  


John grins widely at the detective's version of the traditional wedding vows. Typical Sherlock. Quite a crowd has gathered now, every person completely silent, awaiting his answer. He leans down and tangles a hand in the detective's damp curls.  


“Yes.”  


His eyes twinkle as he tenderly strokes the detective's face before pulling him upright.  


“Yes, Sherlock Holmes, I will marry you.” And he kisses him.  


The crowd erupts, clapping and cheering. One little girl runs up to hug the pair before her mother gently tugs her away, grinning at the two men. Congratulations come from all sides and the doctor finds himself being patted on the back. He looks over to Sherlock, knowing how he hates crowds, but is surprised to see him smiling, eyes sparkling.  


“I think, doctor, it might be about time to eat that Chinese you brought home several hours ago.”  


“Yes, I think that is a very good idea,” grins John.  


They make their excuses and hail a cab to take them swiftly back to Baker Street. Hurrying up the stairs to avoid having to share their moment with Mrs Hudson, they finally make it back to the privacy of the flat. John retrieves the Chinese food from where it was abandoned and sets about reheating it while Sherlock sets the table.  


"You know, you were wrong about one thing," Sherlock says as he places the lily in the centre of the table.  


"Mmm?" asks John absentmindedly as he spoons chow mein onto the plates.  


"The lily. It does signify death and I did like the idea of that. But it also signifies marriage and weddings. And..." He pauses, slightly embarassed to reveal his third reason for picking the flower. "In Spain they believed that eating the petals would transform someone who had become a beast back into a man. And that's what you have done for me." He adds quietly. "Made me human again."  


Sherlock's revelation is met with stunned silence. John stares at him, incredulous, shivers running down his spine.  


"Oh God Sherlock" whispers John. "There I was, thinking that you didn't do sentiment and you go and say something like that."  


He grabs Sherlock fiercely by the lapels and crushes his mouth against Sherlock's.  


"You are definitely the craziest and the best _human being_ that I have ever met," he sighs fondly.  


The microwave pings and John turns to retrieve the last dish, letting the delicious smell of sweet and sour chicken waft into the room.  


They sit down at the burnt table to eat Chinese take away, using the best china and polished cutlery. John laughs quietly. No, life with Sherlock Holmes certainly isn't normal, but it's exactly what he wants.  


He looks up to see Sherlock texting on his phone and scowls briefly. Sherlock notices his look and sighs exaggeratedly.  


“I thought Molly ought to know, considering. Look.” He turns the phone towards John. The doctor's heart fills with love when he sees the words written on the screen.

**I can't thank you enough. He said yes.**

**I got my John.**


End file.
